


your bleeding hands / your shaking head

by SOMNlARl



Series: Tumblr Prompts [5]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I'm so sorry, M/M, Major Depressive Disorder, Mental Health Issues, Ouch, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, This got darker than I expected, unintentional self-injury, why did I do this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:41:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3704345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SOMNlARl/pseuds/SOMNlARl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He’s tired, so tired that each breath brings with it a dull, throbbing ache that settles between the bones of his ribs. He's exhausted no matter how long he sleeps; the nightmares don’t come anymore but neither does rest. Mornings bring only bleary eyes, skin stretched ever-tighter across the bones of his face, the urge to pull the blankets back over his head and return to the Fade. He doesn’t rise at dawn or train the troops himself and most afternoons find him admitting defeat; retreating to his bed or drifting off in his chair. His armor stays on the training dummy now, propped up in the corner of his office; it’s heavy, ill-fitting. It takes too much effort to don the pieces now and it feels wrong. It was forged to match the strength of the wearer and he has none, he never has.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>warning: most of this fic is hurt with next-to-no comfort. i tried to tag everything i could think of as triggering but please be careful and gentle with yourselves. and if you need me to add another trigger/tag please let me know - i'm happy to do that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your bleeding hands / your shaking head

**Author's Note:**

> inspired both by [girlshapedguitar](http://girlshapedguitar.tumblr.com) who introduced me to ['when you break' by bear's den](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qhX1AZCo2Sg) (lyrics [here](http://songmeanings.com/songs/view/3530822107859458639/)) and an anon prompt on the kinkmeme for dorian/m!inq addressing major depressive disorder. but the anon wanted a very generic m!inq and in the absence of knowing how generic they wanted it i decided to take the idea and turn it into cullrian so i didn't mess with someone's mental illness prompt. which is probably just as well because this is terrible. 
> 
> tumblr: [xhermionedanger](http://xhermionedanger.tumblr.com)
> 
> please let me know if you like it!

Cullen eases into the water, his head falling back to hang over the edge of the copper tub. The crook of an arm rests across his face to shield raw eyes from the light. The water’s scalding hot and for a brief moment he considers getting out to let it cool. The longer he lies there the more he realizes that he doesn't have the strength to pull himself back upright. He accepts, even craves the burn with its sharp, biting flash of pain; it’s the only thing that warms him anymore.

He’s tired, so tired that each breath brings with it a dull, throbbing ache that settles between the bones of his ribs. He's exhausted no matter how long he sleeps; the nightmares don’t come anymore but neither does rest. Mornings bring only bleary eyes, skin stretched ever-tighter across the bones of his face, the urge to pull the blankets back over his head and return to the Fade. He doesn’t rise at dawn or train the troops himself and most afternoons find him admitting defeat; retreating to his bed or drifting off in his chair. His armor stays on the training dummy now, propped up in the corner of his office; it’s heavy, ill-fitting. It takes too much effort to don the pieces now and it feels wrong. It was forged to match the strength of the wearer and he has none, he never has.

Pitiful. Worthless. A disappointment.

He doesn’t deserve to wear the armor, to hold his sword, to remain at Skyhold; he can’t remember how to play the role of commander anymore. Soon he’ll break - even collapse - and everyone will know as well. How weak he is, how helpless he’s always been; a shadow of the leader he once was. He won’t be able to keep it hidden much longer; one day - and one day soon - the facade will crumble.

They’ll all know and they’ll despise him for it. Hate him for the lies he told, the way they were tricked into believing his lies. They’ll realize that they could have had better, that fewer soldiers might have died if only he hadn’t been there, that their eventual victory wouldn’t have been so hard won. If only Cassandra had chosen anyone other than him, left him in Kirkwall to rot the way he deserved. _His fault. His fault. It was all his fault._ Or worse, they’ll pity him. Whispers around the corners of the tavern as he passes, soft glances full of concern, awkward touches that linger just a moment too long.

Dorian would fret and fuss, more than he does already. And for a brief moment Cullen wants that - Dorian’s care, the touch of the mage’s hand on his skin, the feel of Dorian’s lips soft against his forehead and the way his voice softens when he’s worried - more than anything. He shakes his head slowly, blinking away the sudden rush of need as he pictures himself in Dorian’s arms, strong arms holding him upright. _Selfish, selfish, selfish_. That’s what he is, to take up any of Dorian’s time at all. He doesn’t deserve that. He doesn’t deserve Dorian.

He closes his eyes and when he opens them again the bath water is tepid, almost cold and he’s alone. It feels right.

***

“Are you... alright?”

A nod. At least Dorian thinks it might have been a nod, or just a slight tilt of the head. It’s difficult to tell in the shadows and silence swelling around them. A trick of the light, perhaps. The way the afternoon sun glints and plays off the man’s curls and the unsteady guttering of the candles suggests movement but Cullen has stilled these last few months, become quiet.

Cullen’s always been quiet, never given to unnecessary words or speeches but it’s always been an easy silence, one that could be broken by a quip or even just the way his name rolls off Dorian’s tongue. This is different.

Dorian frowns and takes one hesitant step forward, then another until he pauses just behind the man’s chair. Cullen doesn’t move, doesn’t look away from the window he’s been staring through even as Dorian leans over gingerly to run his fingers through the man’s hair.

“Cullen?”

At this the man turns slowly, a low questioning hum escapes his parted lips. He offers Dorian a small, tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his red-rimmed eyes.

“Amatus,” Dorian sighs, pushing a stray curl back and away from his brow where it’s fallen. “Are you quite alright? What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all.” He wraps his arms around Dorian’s waist and leans into him, resting his face in the hollows of the mage’s abdomen.

Dorian rubs at his back, pulls him closer to still the shaking that echoes through his body. He doesn’t look down, doesn’t want to see the man who has been his rock sobbing silently. He can have his secrets, Dorian thinks as he cards his hands purposefully through Cullen’s hair. Each touch a reminder, a promise; _I love you. I won’t leave you. I will protect you_.

***

“I might go back. To Tevinter. See about fixing things back home, now that the war is over.”

Dorian’s words are too calculated, a test. Cullen knows it as well as he knows the pain that swells inside his chest. Heartsick, heavy; it pulses and smolders inside him until he can hardly breathe, each inhalation leaving him starved for air. He knows how it must look - the way he shrinks, curls in on himself, hunches his shoulders as though he expects a blow - but he can’t bring himself to face Dorian’s reaction.

“Perhaps you should. You could do a lot of good there, change things for the better.” He doesn’t look up from the report in his hands, fingers grasping at the edges of the parchment so tightly he’s white-knuckled and trembling.

Not like here. There’s nothing his lover can to do here in Skyhold to fix anything, to make things - _him_ \- better.

Dorian flinches, a harsh set to his jaw settles then softens as he sighs. Footsteps and then the soft click of the door closing behind him and Cullen releases the breath he hadn’t known he was holding.

“Forgive me.” He doesn’t deserve Dorian’s forgiveness, broken as he is, but he craves it anyway.

It would be better if the mage left. Cassandra, now Divine Victoria, had already left to begin rebuilding the Chantry. The Inquisitor was always off travelling, continuing to spread their influence and name throughout Thedas. He was gone so often it was almost as though he had left to rejoin his clan. Leliana had her birds and they’d never been close anyway. If Dorian returned to Tevinter there would be no one left at Skyhold to remind him to continue on.

It would be better that way.

Ragged fingernails finally tear through the rough parchment and dig into the calloused flesh of his palms. He doesn’t feel it. Cullen looks down at his hands an hour later. If he were capable of feeling anything, he would be surprised to see their imprints on his skin; little crescent moons ringed with dried blood.

***

As he lies in bed he fingers the crumpled parchment in the pocket of his leather trousers, mouthing the words he’s read a hundred times by now as though they were a prayer.

_Amatus,_

_My love. My life._

_You don’t see me anymore and I don’t know why. Nothing’s been the same since you retreated into yourself._

_I miss you, desperately. Your light, your laughter. I wish so much that you would let me in._

_Perhaps these words will reach you when nothing else seems to._

_I don’t want to return to Tevinter. Not without you. If you won’t come with me then I’m staying here; snow, dogs, barbaric Fereldans and all._

_You are the best thing to have ever happened to me. You don’t see that anymore and everything hurts but please, just trust me again. I’ll protect you. I promise._

_I would rather face forever at your side, pushed away, bringing you back to yourself than face one moment back in Tevinter, alone._

Cullen shivers as a harsh gust of wind blows through his loft, flakes of snow falling through the hole in his roof. He savors the feel of the words on his tongue, drowns in them as he thinks of Dorian and the way the mage looks at him adoringly, like nothing could be better than loving him. He’ll go to Dorian soon, that much he knows for certain. And he’s still selfish because he won’t do the right thing; break it off, send Dorian away, into the arms of someone worthy. 

He wants to be small, to disappear. Make himself incapable of hurting anyone, of hurting Dorian the way he knows he will. And oh, he will. It’s all he knows anymore.

***

He goes to Dorian’s rooms that night but the mage isn’t there. Researching late, he thinks as he curls up in Dorian’s bed. He’s asleep when the mattress dips under the weight of another body, doesn’t wake at the line of kisses pressed softly down his spine or the feel of arms around his waist.

Deep in dreams, wandering the ruined pathways of his mind he finds a wisp, a sudden whisper echoing for hours in the screaming wind of the Fade.

_It’s going to be alright._

***

It will be.

It won’t be.

It will?

He doesn’t remember what it feels like to be alright. All he knows is the dull, throbbing pain - lacking the satisfaction of anything sharp or raw, something he could struggle against - that never ceases. The feeling of being somehow off-balance, as though a stiff wind could topple him at any moment. 

He paces the battlements, watching the denizens of Skyhold scurry purposefully through the courtyard below.

Today he doesn’t wonder absentmindedly how far up he is, whether his heart would stop before he hit the ground, when the courtyard might be empty enough that no one would see anything but the grisly aftermath and who would bother to act as though they had cared.

He looks towards the library instead, focuses on the flickering of the candles through the window, tries but fails to walk through the doors. The sun slips silently behind the peaks of the Frostbacks and he retreats back into his office.

Alright. He doesn’t know how that would feel and he’s not sure if he wants to. He’s grown used to this; the yawning maw of despair nipping at him - threatening to consume him - and after, waves of crushing numbness crashing against him until he slips back under. 

***

But when Dorian comes to him, lies down next to him, runs soft hands up his back and kisses the back of his neck he feels a stirring and presses back into his lover’s body for the first time in months, relishing the feel of the mage’s hipbones against the small of his back, a hand teasing through his curls.

A smile tugs at his mouth - a real smile - and he rolls over to capture Dorian’s mouth in a soft kiss.

This, he thinks, might be what it feels like to start to feel alright.


End file.
